no one will ever know
by like broken glass
Summary: You know how they say everyone's got a soul mate? Sirius is pretty sure he's James'. But he kind of wishes it didn't work that way. SLASH.


_I don't own Harry Potter._

_Warnings:_ **Slash** (obviously) and language.

_Pairings: _One sided _**(or not)**_ Sirius/James.

_Author's notes:_ I think I've fallen into the thrashing waves that are Sirius Black's character. He's just so full of emotion and it's so hard to find words to explain him and that just makes writing him so utterly thrilling. I think I've obtained a high just by this short oneshot. I really like the idea of the Sirius/James pairing, almost as much as I like the idea of Sirius/Remus. I think it's more because James and Sirius could and never will be – they're too scared of crossing the lines because they're so used to their roles, whether what they may find would be absolutely brilliant or not. Well, fanfiction may have corrupted my views of the pairing. Anyway, since I've rambled enough: Feel free to review and I'm working with renewed determination on the next chapter of Surviving.

_Summary: _You know how they say everyone's got a soul mate? Sirius is pretty sure he's James'. But he kind of wishes it didn't work that way.

* * *

**no one will ever know**

_half-truths and lies has become second nature to him. it's like breathing; involuntary and so simple, while so hard at the same time. yet the consequences of the truth keep him from free falling into the large black hole all his words have created. some things, no one should ever know._

You know how they say everyone's got a soul mate? – A person who is your everything and just _completes_ you. No matter how much you fight or lie or try to convince yourself that _it can't be bloody true_, it still is? They're still there and you're still fumbling for words. It's stupid, completely irrational and insane to even attempt to believe such a outrageous _theory_ – there is no proof to your thinking, no matter how many hours you've spent staring at a wall and going over it all in your head. But you've always been _insane_ and _completely irrational_. He tells you that daily, with a cheeky grin and sometimes giving him a shoulder nudge or a hair ruffle. And while maybe that should be insulting or degrading, it makes your stomach tingle and your hands twitch and gives you the almost irresistible urge to dive at him and push him against the hall of whatever corridor you're currently walking down or the Gryffindor table in the middle of the Great Hall and bloody snog the breath out of him. So you just give him a small, fake smile and speak with false cheer, dragging him to do something entirely different than the scenarios you constantly create in your head.

How are you supposed to tell someone who's absolutely obsessed with a girl – a freaking _girl_ for Merlin's sake! He's straight as a bloody stick! – that his best mate is completely head over heels in love with him and even falling a hundred feet from his broomstick in the middle of a Slytherin VS Gryffindor Quidditch match couldn't beat it out of him? He'll hate you for sure; never speak to you again. You can't even bear the thought of living without him by your side, even if he never is aware that you're thinking thoughts about him that would scare the tiny first years out of their skin, so it's easiest just to pretend. _And you've gotten good at pretending_, if you say so yourself. He has no idea and you plan to keep it that way.

But it hurts, y'know? At night especially, when he's mumbling about Evans and Remus is cuddling his pillow and Peter's snoring so loud but it still can't stop your mind of thinking these horrid, heartbreaking thoughts. Sometimes it's how disgusting he'll think you are; the look on his face as he finds out about your feelings or how much of a freak you are to even exist. Other times you delude yourself into believing that he'd smile and say he loves you back and then kiss you, tug you close and let you run your fingers through his forever-untameable hair and give him bruised lips and rosy cheeks. But then you smack yourself in the face and your self-hatred only increases.

Can't he see he's destroying you? No, he's too oblivious and too obsessed with fucking Evans and too caught up in pranks and Quidditch and _too bloody perfect_.

"Prongs?" You say, because you can't help it and it's just so freaking tempting. You're sitting in the kitchens, a glass of hot chocolate wrapped between your frozen fingers.

"Yeah?" He looks up from his own mug, the echo of a grin on his lips and red cheeks, with melting flakes of snow in his hair. He licks the chocolate moustache from his upper lip and you feel yourself melt. _Why did he have to be so fucking adorable?_

"Um..." You fight down the urge to just say a quick _'nevermind' _and pretend like the thought had never ever crossed your mind, like so many others. But a bigger, stronger part of you _needs_ to know. "Do you think you and Evans are soul mates?"

"W-what?" His eyes squint and he looks confused.

"Just answer the question, James." And you sound tired, exhausted, even to yourself; like you had run a thousand laps around the Quidditch pitch and are about to pass out from the strain.

A brief flash of concern crosses James' face and then it vanishes, replaced with a slightly cold, pensive expression. "No, Sirius, I don't think we are." And then he stands and walks calmly out of the kitchens, leaving behind his half-full cup. If it isn't the slight off in his step, you would have thought his words had never been spoken.

What hell is that supposed to mean? _No, Padfoot, I'm utterly in love with Lily Evans and have been after her hand in marriage since first year, but I do not think we're soul mates. _Is this just a joke to him? Probably. And a voice whispers in your head that you should be bitter, that you should hate James, hate Evans, but you _couldn't_. It's physically impossible to hate the other boy; no matter how much he has unknowingly put you through and how many times you have just wanted to turn the tip of your wand to your own forehead. Evans is the love of James' life and she makes him happy, how can you despise her for that?

If there's one thing you understand about love, no matter how unloved and unconventional your childhood had been, is that love is corrupting. Love is selfish and completely selfless. You want James to be happy, no matter whom he's happy with, but you'll always dream and always wish that he could be happy _with you_. Love is also a terrible thing, because it breaks you. It has been slowly destroying your sanity since the time you woke up and realised that James just isn't your best mate/brother anymore. You think it finally split you completely when you walked up to his half-blown up house and saw his body twisted on the floor, his eyes open and glassy, a shadow of terror and determination in their depths. You think it finally ripped your mind from its shell when you pressed your lips to his cold, hauntingly icy forehead before following the screams of your godson.

Your godson – your could-have-been son. You'll never blame Harry; he's your light, your reason to keep going, to keep breathing. He had been such a happy baby; a piece of sunshine, even with the war raging around them. Sometimes you want to tell him, confess everything you kept from his father. You don't want to hold these secrets to your chest anymore. You don't want to have nightmares of James' dead body flash before your eyes every night. But you can't do that to Harry. You couldn't destroy his picture of what the Marauders used to be and how much Lily and James may or may not have loved each other. Wouldn't Harry entertain the thought for a single second that maybe James had felt the same way about you, but never said anything – even if you know it is completely untrue (but admit it, you entertain that thought far too much to be healthy)?

So when Harry finds you, sitting in the kitchen of your childhood home, holding a cup of hot chocolate between your palms and a vacant look in your eyes, you can't bear the thought of telling him the truth. Perhaps James would have been grateful for response or maybe he would have been furious. You will never know. _James is dead_.

"Do you think mum and dad were soul mates?" Harry's voice is soft and wistful, wanting for something he can never have, but should have.

"Yes." Your answer is spoken slowly, quietly, and would forever echo unsympathetically in your ears until you find yourself falling to your own end, eyes connecting with Harry's one last time.

And maybe you tried to convince yourself that Harry's eyes were really James' as you breathed your last breath. But _no one would ever know._

You're dead now too.


End file.
